A Part of Me
by Pale Treasures
Summary: Mary Boleyn struggles with the loss of her brother and sister after their execution. One shot.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, I'm only borrowing the characters.

**Rating: **K+

**Author's Note: **I'm not basing this on a specific fandom - it could take place after Phillipa Gregory's _The Other Boleyn Girl, __The Tudors _or anywhere else. I see it more as historical-based, but with touches of both. I hope you enjoy it.

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**A Part of Me**

_The sun shines, the world is still the same, people keep moving and talking and breathing. But they are not here._

A week had passed since their deaths, but acceptance still failed to sink in. She could not grasp it. She knew she was not a clever woman, she never had been. She had never minded the truth much. Had she been one, she thought detachedly, perhaps it would have been easier to tell herself something intelligent, something no doubt true, about her loss, which would help her endure and move forward. But she was not clever, and she had no depth of insightful thoughts stored within. She was only a woman, too attuned to her heart, a woman who had loved too well and too steadfastly, even in the midst of adversity, even when others had failed to love her likewise in return. And now, she had nothing, only endless pain, a heart, once large in its fullness and certainties, crushed into nothingness.

_They are not here. How can they not be here?_

She remembered her brother's cheerful face, his mischievous smile, and instead of girlish complicity with his naughtiness or motherly, amused indulgence, she felt only an aching and terribly final tenderness. She understood, too late, the measure of her love for him. _I have not told him enough. He did not know how deeply I loved him, how much I needed him. _Now she could never tell him, and nothing was more terrible, more excruciating than that. She would never see him again. Where had her sweet brother gone to?

Not hell, certainly, she refused to believe that. In truth, she was no longer certain she believed anything anymore. Everything was oddly still, ordinary. She had wandered round the country, stared at trees and the sky and gathered flowers, and silently asked them to give her a sign they were well, that somehow they still lived on. _They were good, deep down, each in their own way, and they can be nowhere else but in God's arms. _But she had had no sign, no dream, not a breeze had stirred the tree branches on that pale spring. Nothing.

There is nothing, then, a part of her had thought dully. A lifetime of fervent teachings, of unquestioned beliefs, had vanished without effort. She could not believe in anything. Her brother and her sister's voices were silent at last. They slept under the stone. Everyone had been wrong. This, she felt with a pang of wretched loneliness, was all there was left.

"George..." She clapped a hand to her mouth, tears spilling effortlessly from her eyes. Her face contorted with pain. She buried it in her palm, willing herself to be silent, so that William and the children should not hear her. She had needed them desperately at first; without the strong foundation her family represented, she would have crumbled. Now that a little time had passed, she sought to distance herself, in search of solitude, although her novel lonesomeness brought her nothing but misery.

She kept dwelling on their pain, the fear and loneliness they must have felt during their last moments on the scaffold, the unfairness and disgrace of their deaths. Rage stirred only faintly in her breast; her pain, like icy water, quelled the fire. _If only there was something else I could have done. Perhaps I should have died with them. They needed me, and I failed them. Why didn't I do more? Why did I not think of more? I abandoned them. I cared only for myself. They would have been there for me. They would have laid their heads on the block for me. They would have been with me to the end._

A sob broke forth through her strict restraint, and echoed in the empty room. _God forgive me, I failed them. Do they know how much I love them? Do they know how much I meant to do for them? Do they know I wish I could have helped them? I never thought something like this would happen. We were meant to be together, the three of us, the three Boleyns. Together forever. We ought to have seen our children grow up together, as we did. Oh God, oh God._

It did not make sense. Their beauty, their fire, the strength and vividness of their presence, could not be utterly gone from this world. Life could not be snuffed out like this. They were extraordinary – surely they could not die like ordinary people. But their flesh had yielded and their blood had flowed all too easily. She remembered Anne's execution clearly, and the horror she had felt then and now still, both at realising this and at seeing the gory powerlessness of her body as it submitted to the blow.

Anne. Anne. She was most difficult to think about. Unlike George, whose memories held only pure love and joy, there had been animosity and confusion mingled with love in Anne's. She had never quite understood her sister. In the last months of her life, she had felt glad that she could not understand her, and that she was not Anne. What was the use of turning men's heads, of being more intelligent and learned and witty than the rest, when she was unhappy, with a tyrant for a husband and a dry womb? She had almost felt happy – certainly grateful – that she was doing well at last and Anne was not. She would not have traded her life for hers. Perhaps now she will learn some humility, she had thought, not without compassion.

And then, everything happened too fast. Far too quickly for her mind to grasp it. She was still reeling from it. Now Anne was gone. Silent were her laughter and her jests, silent were her footsteps, and nothing remained, only a memory she fought fiercely to preserve, before it could slip away too. Everything she had fought for, done, meant, was as though it had never been. It did not make sense. Anne could not disappear like this. Once again, she had gone somewhere she could not follow, and despite her desperate pleas, she did not stop for her to catch up. _Once again, you are ahead of me. _But she felt no envy, no frustration, only a terrible heartache that knocked the breath from her. _Anne. Sweet sister. Forgive me. Say you knew._

There was so much she had not done, so much she had not told her, and she wondered unceasingly, guiltily, whether Anne had ever realised those things. For her part, at last she knew now that Anne had loved her – all the insecurity and jealousy had simply vanished with her death. Anne had loved her, deep down, as fully as she loved her. She no longer doubted that for a second. They had wasted their time together playing enemies so often. If only they had stopped to cherish one another! If only they had turned their backs on their parents, on court, on, yes, the king! She knew she would never have done that when she was younger, in spite of her occasional qualms, and neither would have Anne. She wondered if, should they have known the future, they would have had the courage to do so.

Now it was too late, it was far, far too late, her mind kept telling her. Her beloved brother and sister were gone, but her parents, her uncle, the king, everyone who had helped arrange their downfall, were still alive. Again, that stirring of anger. Why should they live when George and Anne did not? If God did exist, why did He not strike them down? Why had He not done so already? The tears kept gushing, and her anguished wails filled the room with her no longer having the strength to check them. And then, William was with her.

"There. There," he whispered tenderly, gathering the sprawled heap of her body in his strong arms, and rocking her resolutely. His lips were in her hair, his breath warm and reassuring. "Cry, my poor wife. Crying is all you have left now, so cry. Don't be afraid of it."

"It was—m-m-my fault," she sobbed.

"No, no, no," Will countered firmly, a slight frown tugging at his forehead. "None of this was your fault. There were forces at play none of you could stop. They fell, while you managed to escape. That is all. You are not to blame, Mary; you did everything for them. No woman could have loved her brother and sister more than you did. You fought for them to the last; many would not be so brave. They would never blame you, either. They would not wish you to suffer for their fates – no, I don't believe that for a minute. They would rejoice in your being alive, and they would want you to be happy."

She clutched his doublet for dear life, allowing herself to be rocked like a small child, her breathing a little unsteady.

"Wait a moment," he whispered gently. "Let me go get something. I'll be back soon."

He went from the room, and returned presently with a familiar bundle in his arms. Annie. She hoisted herself up, an hesitant smile twitching her lips. William held out the baby for her to take, and she did so, feeling the reassuring warmth of her little girl's chubby body.

"She will help you," he said. "She will give you joy when nothing else can. As will we all. We love you, Mary, the children and I. We will be there for you when you need us. Even when you do not call for us, we will be there all the same."

Tears, though of a different sort, glimmered in her eyes. He leaned closer to her, cradling her cheek. "I don't expect this to take away the pain, but it will help, I hope. You have only to remember it."

She nodded slightly and buried her cheek gratefully in his chest. "It will help," she confirmed, voice hoarse and choked with emotion. She held the baby a little tighter, more gratefully than ever. "Thank you."

He smiled, touching the golden hair that had spilled from the lopsided hood. "I will send for food for us both. You have not eaten today."

She thought of asking him to stay, but her little daughter in her arms gave her strength. She smiled and watched him go. She glanced at little Anne and the darkness momentarily flew from her heart. She kissed the top of her head, squashing her lovingly to her breast. Tomorrow, in all likelihood, there would be more pain. But perhaps not today. With William and her beloved children beside her, perhaps not today. And perhaps even tomorrow would be a little kinder. William was right. She had only to remember it.


End file.
